a hint of spice ...

stark
steely
crumpled
shabby
unkempt
wrinkled
run-down
tired
worn
my wedding dress



Linking to:
Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Sunday Mini Challenge - Decastich

wings reaching...

Jacek Yerka - Erosion 


sands
invade lives
lost desert wastelands
souls eroded by hunger
bodies craving for loving
an urban dreamscape
or nightmare
pit


wings
reaching high
face smiling with light
a child with dreams from Sweden
a saint working in Zinder
a friend to many
ascends to
mum


The Joseph’s Star was created by Christina R. Jussaume.
It is a non-rhyming 8-line poem with a syllable count of 1/3/5/7/7/5/3/1.
Each stanza is centre-aligned so that the finished poem is diamond-shaped.

This poem is dedicated to Esther Garvi who died recently in Zinder.
Details of her life and work are HERE
and
my other thoughts on her life are HERE and HERE



Linking to:
Mindlovemisery's Menagerie - B&P's Shadorma and Beyond

my philosophy of why...

mainstream
a convenient delta
mapped by 
rocky fads
knowledge driven rapids
peer pools and
social rivers

but 
what is the source
what is beyond

why do the waters 
flow
why do the seasons
change the waters


a young
barefoot child in 
the sandy heat
of Zinder
is so happy
to see 
the green
of a tiny plant
growing


why can't we 
understand


Linking to;
dVerse

watercolour...

in the watercolour mystery of  our dawn
I still hope 
to see
to touch
the spiritual
greyscale 
paradox
of Granny Smith


watercolour
Granny Smith
- enigmatic blogger who responded to many poetry prompts (added when the link didn't seem to be noticeable)
    paradox    
spiritual            dawn           touch



Linking to;
dVerse

dolls...

human-like
dolls
have a sensitive ear
for sham and
branded
heartbreak
if you leave them
alone
for too long

and
no tossed ball
will ever get them
to acknowledge
to understand 
the hunted game of
fetch


worthy witches know
that
blind spells
boiled by
lesser humans
only lead to
the dark resurrection of
scorpion minds and
a soul hungry
werewolf



Linking to:
Wordle #207

crows...

crows
open to healing
splintered bones and
black hearts and
escaping souls

loners
offering
cool clay
to soothe the insidious burning illusion
that crawled through
the mind

like gentle quilts
sheathing grain
until the new life
is ready

to collapse

or

crack


 
Linking to;
Wordle #206

still searching...

 

That is such an intent look on the sculpture. 

I would be quite tempted to turn and see what the artist had them looking at... X

hibernating in a winter glaze could be healthy

it's the season

for icy grey clouds

and endless rainy days

when looking through a window

rugged in some old blanket

is a special kind of joy

long missed

writing away 

the endless script for pain

is a medication

I know

guaranteed

to cool the fickle fever of
mandatory mayhem

and

confronting the dark seas of many yesterdays

means

I need to start swimming

or at least

tread water

there is 

no rainbow

no island on the horizon

just a spot of late afternoon light

on some flimsy blossom

that doesn't know that

autumn leaves 

are still hanging on the branch

in the scheme of things

it could be a melancholy light

but I won't let it be

instead

at last

for a little stargate in time

I can break the hold of

alarms and protocols

and connect with the spirit of Emily Dickinson

and smile

Linking to;
Poetry Pantry

flame...

the season when
sands burned and
seas cooled
holiday feet
now
fuel the flame of
wistfulness


Linking to:
Poetry Jam - Flame

the world is getting smaller...

the world is getting smaller

(or perhaps I am willing it to be smaller)

mornings are a 

flurry of welcome coffee and

cat miaouws

needing attention

I hate to leave the calm warmth of

deep lounge chairs

and opened curtains

I hate to ignore the call

to write and dream

and to walk beneath some dancing leaves...

ultimately

to impress is

so yesterday

so somebody's measure

so not mine

yet

I keep a small place

behind the facade

of workplace demands

protocols and fads

to love

as I have always loved

teaching teenagers

yes

I feel the smallness of my paradise

in autumn

poetic letter from my bikey son...

I was riding the equatorial salts of the north, 
 far north Cape York in Australia, 
shunning the Gold Coast bling for 
a taste of a real 
 middle earth 
 and 
 wheeling the feel of 
a fresh 
rainforest wilderness... 

 I heard my soul... 

 So my shiny blues are dusty... 
 I'll polish them when I get back... 

 Eventually... 



Linking to: Flash 55 - at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads